


To the Encore

by rosncrntz



Category: Victoria (TV)
Genre: Angst, Assassination Attempt(s), Cumberland is pretty evil, Denial of Feelings, Eventual Happiness, F/M, Gossip, Politics, Self-Sacrifice, Theatre, Vicbourne, alternative history
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-12
Updated: 2017-09-02
Packaged: 2018-10-31 03:16:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10890570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosncrntz/pseuds/rosncrntz
Summary: Gossip. Rumours. The Queen's criminal conversation with her Prime Minister. England is a land of intrigue and romanticism - fuelled by vicious rumour, and the eloquent writings of a French dramatist. He captures the soul, draws out the most intimate, and plays it on a stage, where the world may understand.





	1. Hanover's Hostesses

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Amélie for this wonderful prompt! I'm back to vicbourne again - it's been too long. Hope you enjoy.

He had the wisdom – both politically and socially, and the obscure kind that comes with the acquisition of years – to understand that this was the plot of the Duke of Cumberland. It began innocently enough, at least as far as Lord Melbourne was concerned (a man accustomed to the sting of bad press), with a patter of journalistic spite, a few odd comments, and a little dissent in the ballrooms of Hanover Square. It didn’t worry him then – for people always find something to jaw about, and what better than the young Queen of England? But, soon, these sparks caught larger fires.

Something unmistakable in Cumberland’s manner painted his hands red with the guilt – at first, an odd reservation, as if lost in perpetual ponder, and then, not long later, a decisiveness in his gait and his manner which made him all too brash and uncommon, as if a decision had been made and the results were making him arrogant.

The first cartoon caught Melbourne hotly. Too hot, too hot. His heart danced. But not for joy; not joy. A criminal conversation between the Queen and her Prime Minister – falsehoods, he told himself, but the hushed voice beneath whispered the truth in the claims. Not a criminal conversation, perhaps, but enough inappropriate behaviour to warrant suspicion. The Queen was depicted softly and youthfully, like a little girl in bloom with her downy skin like the fuzz of a peach, and then he – uncomfortably old, scaled – fawning over her. The little Queen’s face was bashful but keen. Flirtatious. And Melbourne could recognise the setting as the most private abode he had in this world: Brocket Hall, a place where he and the Queen had been together – quite alone – only a few weeks before. The image was profane and hurtful. It made the dearest relation to Lord Melbourne’s heart become something to be ashamed of, something disgusting and unlawful, and the meeting they had had (one that struck him with sorrow to think on) something unsavoury, when it had been loving and innocent. Loving and innocent – but agonising, now. He could still hear the crying rooks, unabashed and noisome, and the cracking of black wings together as they took flight, and the bitter cold, ice in air, biting at his skin.

He had rejected her, much to the protestation of his affection, but they were not safe. The scandal was still snaking at their heels, spitting venom, and Lord Melbourne was acutely aware of it – he had to be, it was his job: it was politics. Politics was a cruel career and, if he could have it all over again, he would have gone into the church. No – that was a lie. If he had, he’d never have found his heart. But, with it, came fraud and hell, thanks to the Duke of Cumberland: the rotten pig, gross with ambition and jealousy. When his claims denouncing the Queen’s sanity fell on deaf ears, he was sure to turn to some other form of slander. And what better slander in the land was there than the British broadsheet? Tactical.

As he looked at the Queen’s pretty drawn face, he could only hope that she had not yet seen it.

It did not stop there, however. Pamphlets with lies were clapped in clammy hands, passed from person to person like some venereal disease, catching speed and viciousness. Every ballroom in Hanover Square and beyond was a reeking hotbed of gossip surrounding the young Queen and her widowed Prime Minister. Secret meetings at Dover House, unannounced and improper! An unmarked carriage arriving at Brocket Hall! The rabble was convinced it was all lies and, yet, the hostesses and the card tables could not help but indulge themselves in fantastical imaginations and retellings of romantic liaisons between the pair – unbuttonings and carnal embraces. It was delicious outrage.

And the Duke of Cumberland, fat, sat behind it all, on some man-made throne, admiring his handiwork. Whilst Lord Melbourne, beyond distress, scrabbled on the streets of London collecting tatters of a reputation being burnt up.

When Lord Melbourne entered Buckingham Palace, he felt like a sinner coming from the rattle of the road into an Abbey. The clutter of hooves and rumble of civilisation was still present – but muffled by the singular peace of the church, like a moment frozen in time, irrefutable and immovable. There was the to and fro of busy servants, keeping their heads low and their business as discreet as possible, but Melbourne had become acutely sensitive to their toing and froing and felt the movement passing through him, like the pendulum of a grandfather clock. The rhythm was as steady as the pendulum, and as ancient, ingrained in the very fabric of England, commonplace but special. It had something of the constitution about it, typical of the monarchy, an air of the Empire, and impossible to extinguish. And now he was a cog within it, a part of the machine, a foreign part, mismatched and ticking out of tune. The Queen would convince every other cog that he were a perfect fit for this Buckingham clock, ticking in perfect time, chiming out the hours, but he knew – and they knew – that he was a bell of a different tune.

He was here, on this dreary Wednesday morn, to convince the Queen that he could not continue his role in the clockwork.

Parliament and the monarch would never tick in tandem – they never had, and they were never destined to. The relationship would always be too estranged or too close. And he felt himself dangerously close to the flames. Parliament was asunder, and the Queen seated with her Prime Minister at Buckingham Palace, being carefully told of the cause of this unrest – which she had noticed vaguely for some time, without knowing the cause.

“What sort of rumours?” Victoria asked, uninterested, more involved in flapping Dash’s ears like wings and watching his wide eyes roll around, confusedly. Dash sighed – long-suffering. Melbourne sighed too, wishing that now – for once – she would listen to him without distraction. She did not understand how important this was. She could be such an insolent soul: the product of a turbulent upbringing. He continued, nonetheless. He knew better than to lecture the Queen like a student of his. It would only make her more obstinate.

“I must tell you plainly, Ma’am, that… that there has been public suspicion of a criminal conversation between the two of us,” he said, trying to calm the shaking of his voice beneath her innocent gaze. She stared at him and blinked a few times, as if she hadn’t completely understood him, or that his voice had not yet reached her, but was travelling sluggishly through the air between them, and she was waiting for it. Her expression did not falter.

“A criminal conversation?”

“A romance, Ma’am.”

“Yes,” she said, simply, letting go of Dash’s ears, and folding her hands into her skirt. She stared fixedly ahead of her, biting her lip, her eyes wider now than before. This news was more than a little troubling – not only did it pose a threat to her popularity and position, but it also reignited the pain that she felt in losing her dear Lord M that day at Brocket Hall. She still felt the rejection keenly. She looked briefly back to him, and felt a tinge of hurt in seeing that he did not look at her. He was always one to look at the ground, or the wall, Victoria remarked, rather than face the things that brought him sorrow. He could stare the opposition in the eye from across the House, but could not look at her. She turned to her own clasped hands and tried to speak strongly. “And who is responsible?”

“I cannot say for definite, but I have reason to believe that your Uncle, the Duke of Cumberland, is responsible.”

“Of course,” Victoria cried, rubbing her hands together anxiously. Her gaze began to dart about, not fixing on any one thing for more than a second, before skittishly flittering off to another space in the room. “He never wanted me on the throne.”

“I believe he means to shame your Majesty into abdication.”

“He will do no such thing,” Victoria said, aghast. “My Uncle will never shame me into anything – let alone giving up my crown, my country, and my people!” Victoria said, the grief in unrequited love lessening, and regaining the strength in her convictions to speak like a monarch. Lord Melbourne could not help but smile at the sentiment, his lips flickering weakly. He could not find within himself the strength to do what he knew was necessary. He hadn’t even the strength to smile – not really.

“Very true, Ma’am. I am glad to hear you say so.”

“What do you suggest we do, Lord M? Are the rumours harmful?” Victoria asked, her fingernails becoming an annoyance for poor Dash, who was growing restless. Dogs are said to be able to pick up on the aura of a room, and Dash was not happy with it.

“I fear they are, Ma’am,” Lord Melbourne said. He understated the truth. He did not know what else to do. He tried to gather his strength, all the tatters that remained of it, and bundle them into something substantial, something brave enough for him to do what needed to be done. Do what was required of him.

“What do you suggest we do?” she asked, standing up, disturbing Dash, and allowing herself to speak more directly to her Prime Minister. Melbourne’s heart staggered into a firm beat, willed on by a shaking breath and a clenching of two white fists. She had no idea, he thought, looking at those blue eyes, completely harmless, yet strong as thunder and marble.

“I think you must know what needs to be done.”

There was an opaque silence. It throbbed in the air: leaden.

Then, jarringly, Victoria let out a breathy laugh, shaking her head and shrugging her shoulders, a faint smile on her face.

“I do not know what you mean, Lord M!” she chimed, a creeping greyness, like ink bleeding across parchment, enclosing on her. Doubt. Fear. Knowing. Lord Melbourne was numb with the adrenaline of saying something so rash, so against his desires, so hurtful, that he felt no pain in speaking them. He was doped and drawn thin. Like paper, trembling at the slightest breeze and translucent enough for the light to pass through him.

“I… I must resign, Ma’am. I must withdraw from politics.”

The cogs were catching.

“You have said such a thing before, Lord M… how can you expect me to believe you?” she half-laughed, her voice barely strong enough to be heard above Lord Melbourne’s own heartbeat. He was finding strength in its drumming.

“I’m afraid, your Majesty, that I must insist you call upon Robert Peel and, this time, accept him.”

“Lord M, I-“

“Ma’am, please. Let me speak.” He could hardly bring himself to continue. But he did, beating back the winds of doubt. To look at Victoria at this time would crucify him, so he did not. “I insist that you allow Robert Peel to form a ministry, and I assure you I will withdraw from politics whether you accept Peel or not. Not immediately, for it cannot look like I am running away-“

“Running away from what? Lord Melbourne!” Victoria protested, advancing on him, turning pink. Melbourne continued relentlessly.

“It cannot look like I am running away! The next vote we lose, which cannot be too far away, I will resign, and you will call upon a new government.”

“You are ordering me, Lord Melbourne. You have no right to give me orders!”

“Ma’am, you must understand that this is necessity,” he implored. He was tutoring her. He was lecturing her. She could scream at his order, his sense, his precaution. Throw caution to the wind! Throw it all away! Kick it into the river, and let it sink! She began to shout,

“I will ensure that the Whig party never loses a vote ever again!”

“You know that you haven’t the power to do that, your Majesty,” Melbourne said. He could always stay calm with her, even when she was at her most furious. His wits were sound even in the depths of his despair. Tears flooded Victoria’s eyes, but she dammed them up with anger.

“Lord Melbourne! I cannot allow you to do this.”

“There will be no recovering me this time. I say this not to be cruel, but to be kind. It is too dangerous for me to remain your Prime Minister.”

“Dangerous to who? You are no danger to me!” She was tearing cogs out of the machine. Her voice could be heard tolling through the palace. “You are no danger to me!”

“But I am. I am. The only way we can set these rumours to rest is through my resignation. It grieves me, your Majesty, believe me, as much as it grieves you.”

How can he say that? Victoria thought, outraged if she were not so despairing. How could he claim that he feels grief anything close to hers, when he had rejected her love so cruelly at Brocket Hall? How could he claim to feel anything for her surmounting to what she felt for him? How could he lie? He felt nothing so violent as her affection for him! He felt nothing so agonising as losing the person he loved! He felt nothing so strongly as she did!

Of course, Victoria herself did not know how Lord Melbourne’s heart strained on its strings for her. Almost to the point of rupturing. But years had taught him how to hide it, for society’s sake. Whereas Victoria, in youth, could not. What William Lamb felt was love, indeed, undeniable.

“Lord Melbourne… I…” Victoria’s voice faltered and snuffed out, as she collapsed back in to her seat, eyes searching the carpet for some sort of saviour that would never appear. Her throat was raw, her heart aching. She would not cry. Not in front of him. She would not cry. “I cannot do this without you.”

It took every shred of strength in his tired body to keep himself from falling to her side, holding her in his arms, and kissing away her tears, each individual tear being met with his lips until she was free of sadness and felt only the strength of his love. He stayed statue still.

“We both understood that I could not be your Prime Minister indefinitely. That is the beauty of democracy.”

“Beauty?” she choked. Her voice was dangerously low. It seemed to come from another person completely. It was not Victoria’s voice, but another’s: an older woman, who had lived and lost, and curled her branched fingers around her scars. These scars bled. “How can you call this beauty?”

“It is the constitution.”

“Damn the constitution!” she cried. Her tears failed her. Her dams broke. She began to cry. She felt like a little girl at Kensington again, exposed to the vultures to pick and crow at her, vulnerable and trembling. She felt so little, so fragile. She felt like one of her dolls. One could pick her up, shake her, fiddle with her, and toss her back down again. Limp.

If, now, he could fall to her, it would be his only joy. To take her hands, and warm them, stroke her dark hair, whisper in her ear to soothe her, and feel her heartbeat as he kissed her fingertips. He wished he were not Prime Minister, and she were not Queen, and he could do all that. But he was bound into stillness.

“We must make sacrifices for the country,” he said. “I am sorry, your Majesty.”

She hated that: your Majesty. She wanted to be Ma’am. No. She wanted to be Victoria. She wanted to be a woman before him: Victoria, nothing more. The name she chose for herself. Not Queen Victoria, but Victoria. A woman never scorched by scandal, never bound to convention, never forced from her wishes, never prodded and poked, never hurt, never scolded. A woman with a free will and a heart rich and full of blood and muscle, who could cut and forge her own path through the leaves, and tread it with conviction, not with prior advising. She wanted to act by the bidding of the intimate voice in her, not the voice of the external.

The external voice plagued her. She wanted to mute it. Smother it.

To run to the border and lean off the earth into the wind. For her soul to become a thread of the universe.

“This must remain secret for now, your Majesty,” Lord Melbourne explained, needing desperately to fill the silence between them. “As I said, the next vote we lose, I will resign.”

“You would abandon me.”

Lord Melbourne could not speak. He wanted to profess something of his innocent. He wanted to deny it, to rail against it. He wanted to scoff, shake his head, and admit something of himself beneath the gaze of God who saw all. But he could not. His voice was mute. He could not deny it. No matter how hard he tried. Not even to himself, in the privacy of his own mind.

He could not deny it.


	2. Too Hot, Too Hot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To escape the flames of scandal, one must breathe the air, and escape.

Childhood at Kensington, like a silver needle, had drawn a thread up straight through the centre of Victoria’s character, and it had left in her a streak of the turbulent spoilt child. If someone she disliked was coming for dinner, she would serve a dish she knew they disliked. If her mother upset her, she would refuse to see her, and they would communicate only through the written word and the footman. And, on this day, one week after Lord Melbourne had rejected her most cruelly and suddenly, she decided she would wear blue, for she knew how he disliked ladies wearing blue. He had said it was ‘unlucky’ – and she had laughed herself into weeping at the silliness of such a thing. But now, she bore blue as her weapon.

She was unsure whether he would even call on her today – or just retreat to Dover House and shelter himself there like a tortoise afraid of the wind. But, if he saw her on not, she would wear blue.

Cobalt blue silk satin, cinched at her waist and full-skirted, with a white lace collar and lace around the sleeves. And, standing in front of the long mirror, war-like in her blue armour, she felt very proud and very beautiful. She wanted to have him kneel to her in her blue, hate the sight of it, but be forced into the subservience of a subject and the flattery of a courtier. She hoped very much that he would call on her today. She wanted to make him squirm.

She told herself that, confident in the closet of her mind, but when Lord Melbourne did arrive, just after midday, she wilted. She was subsumed in the cobalt blue. And she drowned. And his voice was the last thing she heard from the crest of the waves.

“How are you today, Ma’am?”

How could he ask her that? How could he ask her such a question when he must know the answer? He had taken her heart and tore it to smithereens and was holding the tatters in his bloodied hands, and he dared ask her how she was? Of course, she was in agony. To see him was purgatory. She pursed her lips, trying to peacock herself to him. She tried to make him feel something – anything.

“I am quite strong, Lord Melbourne.” Her voice was glass. It could stab a wound through him, but it could easily shatter. Lord Melbourne felt the injury, but saw the fragility.

“I hope you don’t mind me saying so, Ma’am, but you do not look happy to see me here!” he laughed. She wanted to slap the laugh from his face. But she never would. To injure him would be an injury to her. Their souls were tethered in such a way that one feels the other entirely. She sighed and, turning to the window to breathe, she spoke in hesitant words,

“I did not think you would come today.”

Lord Melbourne’s eyes flittered to the ground only for a moment. He spoke like a statesman – the politicians language, borne by a thousand before him, and to be adopted by a thousand after him.

“Why wouldn’t I, Ma’am?” Those words blew daggers into the cobalt blue armour she donned. How could she ever have considered such a cruel creature her friend? He understood all too well – of course he did – Victoria could see that he did in the shining of his eyes, filled with obscure tears that would never be shed, even if he were quite desolate and with no need of fearing being found compromised. Even now, in their meetings, in which they were most private and intimate, he would not let the guard drop. He played his role exceptionally well. But she wanted so desperately to see him cower: to break that indestructible resolve, that charm of his. The thread within her was fraying. Being picked at by blades strand by strand. He would not even mention the agreement (she called it an ‘agreement’ even though she had no say in the matter) they had come to. Until the day that he decided he would leave Parliament and politics and her behind, they would continue as if their days were not numbered.

But she felt it all too keenly. The slow tick, tick of their time: expiring.

And he felt it too. The creep towards oblivion, where he would leave her company and turn his back. And he wanted to tell her he would stay. And he wanted to tell her he would not be discouraged by mere gossip. And he wanted to tell her he loved her. But said none of it.

Their meeting was a cold one. Their dialogue was conducted within the minds of one another, not spoken aloud; a million things that would remain only thoughts.

And then the time passed, interluded by painful glimpses of contact between the two, always brief and always tarnished with the knowledge of the inevitable ending, and then the time became clear. The Whigs weakened, as is always the case with the wheel, as soon as one is at the peak, they must fall again. And, with that, a few months later, Lord Melbourne’s sense prompted him to accept that the time was right. Now it was. And it would always be.

He took the carriage to Buckingham Palace to announce his resignation, with an awful headache and a terrible sinking in his stomach.

The news was given to her by a politician, not a friend, not a lover, but as a Prime Minister. Curt. Simple. Insensitive. And she had to respond as such: curt, simple, insensitive. The humanity was pushed deep, deep down where it could not be glimpsed and the exterior people were dutiful Queen and Prime Minister. The Prime Minister stayed for ten minutes, at the very most, and the Queen accepted the Prime Minister’s wishes impartially. The Queen accepted that a new government would need to be formed. The Queen agreed to meet with Sir Robert Peel. The Prime Minister said something vague about being honoured to have served her. The Queen listened and nodded. The Queen thanked him for his service. The Prime Minister almost faltered into a man. But he did not. The Prime Minister received the thanks gracefully. The Prime Minister kissed the Queen’s hand briefly. Not savouring the touch of his lips on her knuckle. Not breathing in the scent of her one last time – orange blossom, expensive oil, rich and clean and indistinctly feminine. Not feeling a cry in his chest that, if he let it, would emerge so violently that it would break him. Not allowing his hands to tremble. Not noticing how hers trembled too. Not allowing himself to love her.

The Prime Minister could never do or feel such things for the Queen. And the Queen could never reciprocate. That was the deal. This was England.

And then the Prime Minister left in his carriage, moving swiftly through the gates of the palace, and – once through the threshold – relinquishing the role of Prime Minister for evermore, and allowing the man – William Lamb – to rise to the surface, unopposed, and grieve. And, as William Lamb moved further and further away, Alexandrina Victoria watched through the window, throwing the role of Queen far away, and becoming a woman, unopposed, and grieving.

Whilst Alexandrina Victoria took to crying beside the window, her tear-plagued eyes fixed on the gate in hope of her heart’s carriage coming back through, a torrent of endearments – more than endearments – stewing within her, desperate to be spoken, but rotting instead, William Lamb took to biting his cheek bloody and, upon arriving at Dover House, drink. Drinking himself numb, and trying to forget the smell of her in the vapours of port.

Alexandrina Victoria had had her heart broken at Brocket Hall, when her dear heart was stolen from her, but now she understood that heartbreak had never been true to her.

William Lamb had suffered no heartbreak, but a lifetime attrition of the heart, the deaths of children, Caroline’s betrayal, Caroline’s fading and the light burning out, the strain, and now the sharpest pain of losing a dear friend, a companion, a woman he adored and admired. Not just a love, but a company unparalleled.

And their grief was consuming, drawing clouds across London, which was flooded with rain.

Meanwhile, Germany saw bright skies and King Leopold of Belgium was in raptures, the intoxicating thrill of ambition doping him, and sending him flying to his nephew in an unusually jovial mood. Prince Albert of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha was unnerved to see his uncle so happy, with such a bright smile on his face, and he remained severe whilst hearing his uncle’s news.

“That meddling Lord Melbourne has resigned! There are no obstructions for the marriage between yourself and your cousin, Victoria! This is your chance, Albert!” he cried, barely able to control his hysteria at this situation which, in his eyes, was so perfectly designed it was as if God himself had set it up. Albert, however, was not nearly as thrilled to hear this news.

“I heard she was infatuated with Lord Melbourne.”

“No matter now! It was a girlish fancy! And when she claps her eyes on the noble Coburg countenance, she will quite forget whatever trifling English charms Lord Melbourne might have offered her! No, Albert, you must not let this pass. She is ready to meet a new suitor, a more suitable suitor, of her years and her persuasion – a suitor much like yourself!” Leopold cried.

“Or like Ernst.”

“No! Ernst is not a King of England. Little Victoria needs a stable man at her side.”

Albert was not being persuaded.

“Cousin Victoria did not like me, last we met,” he said, remembering how her blue eyes rolled and rolled and rolled. He did not like her at all either. She was a dwarfish little thing, disagreeable, spoilt rotten. He did not want to marry Cousin Victoria. He did not even want to visit Cousin Victoria. But Leopold was not to be discouraged.

“But look how you have matured! They say wine gets finer with age, and you have certainly grown into yourself, my dear Albert! I have already sent a letter to the Duchess of Kent. I am intending to travel to England before the end of the month, and you are coming with me.”

“Uncle!” Albert cried at Leopold, who was beginning to rise from his seat, as if the deal was done.

“My mind will not be changed, Albert. If you marry Queen Victoria, you will be King, and the most powerful man in England.”

“I am not English.”

“You will be.”

And, just like that, the deal was done.

“Has the deal been done?” Emma Portman asked her dear friend William, who was sat on his favourite armchair in Dover House, paler and sicker now than she had ever seen him before. She feared greatly for his health, but was too afraid to say anything, knowing he would brush it all away. “Has the Queen accepted Robert Peel?”

“From what I’ve heard,” William sighed, as if it was a strain to even speak of her who his body and soul yearned for, “she has.”

“Willingly?”

“I could not say. I haven’t seen her.”

“Will you?” Emma asked without thinking. William’s eyes hollowed. “See her again?”

The silence was fierce.

“No.”

Emma nodded, turning her eyes to the ground, swallowing the lump in her throat.

“Where will you go?” she asked, trying to lift the intonation of her voice into something happy and conversational, but she feared it sounded false. It was false just like the smile he gave was false. And it was false just like his contentment.

“I will return to Brocket Hall. Finish my book, listen to the rooks. It will be good for me, to relax. Politics has been a taxing vocation,” he laughed, humourlessly. Lady Emma did not laugh, not even out of politeness. The laugh dwindled and died. William finally said something truthful. “I need to stay away from her. We have acted recklessly.”

Emma could no longer be silent,

“You have not-“

“Emma.” His voice was firm and it silenced her once more. There was no use, she knew that. And so she didn’t try again. She smiled weakly at him. She wanted to talk sense to the pair of them. But there was no talking sense to the lovesick, unfortunately. What an awful affliction it was. “I will leave her. I am doing my duty to the crown.”

And that duty bid him to Brocket, and he obeyed, like a worthy disciple of the throne, compliant and loyal. And Victoria did not see him before he left. But she felt his absence. Like an airlessness between her ribs, sucking at her, she felt his distance growing. And she felt him no longer there and, yet, could not determine where he had gone. But it didn’t matter. Why did she need to know?

The fire of scandal (too hot, too hot) began to lessen and Lord Melbourne dodged the soot to breathe the air again, but found that breathing had become difficult now that he had not her. But he took what gasps he could, and eased himself with the thought that this affair – supposed affair? Real affair? – between the Queen and the Prime Minister would soon become history. It was torrid and blackening. But it would fade into the past soon enough, he thought, and then throne would be crystal. Unblemished. And perfect.

Yes, he thought, remembering how he would lean over the throne to whisper into the Queen’s ear, all scandal and thoughtlessness: it would be perfect.

A torrid affair caught on the wind over the channel, and France was offered another story altogether. Not a torrid affair at all. A forbidden romance, played out on the boards of Paris’ theatres, was becoming increasingly popular: “The Queen’s Tears”. What Queen? Unspecified but distinct. Tears over whom? Unspecified but undeniable. The play was a phenomenon.

And the wind was beckoning back again to England.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this update has taken so long - I've been really busy! My work will die down a bit in a couple of weeks, and then it should be a bit quicker. Thanks for your patience and I hope you enjoy this instalment.


	3. Coburg Brothers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Coburgs arrive.

Like slipping into a dream, or the turn of the tide when it beats back against the current into the silver line of sky and sea, Queen Victoria learned – again – to be Queen. What pain, once severe, she felt for a lost love, an unreturned ardour, became bearable, only as sharp as a headache, and as tight around her as her corset. She could breathe fine again, she could lift her eyes to the sky again, and healing - though a process never to be completed – was becoming possible.

She would spend her mornings with Robert Peel, patient as he guided her through matters she did not understand. She knew that Lord Melbourne would explain them with ease, but she must not dwell on that. She would take her rides alone, even in the cold, even when she was busy or tired. She knew that Lord Melbourne would make the rides far more pleasant, but she must not dwell on that. She ate dinner to excess, laughing at men and holding her ladies’ hands, and she enjoyed her evenings greatly. She knew that Lord Melbourne would have something witty to say to her, and she knew he would stay after dinner, falling asleep, but remaining the dearest company, but she must not dwell on that. She would fall asleep, knowing that the sound of his breath and the warmth of his body would be heaven, but she did not dwell on that.

The palace saw a happy, sweet, dignified Queen. Lord Melbourne and his sudden departure had made its dent, but she had smoothed it out again, collected herself, bundled herself into her arms, and walked out with pride into the world, unafraid. And Victoria herself had become so involved in this façade that she felt recovered. An agony had turned to a throb. And she survived.

Lord Melbourne, alone, lacking distraction, numbed his pain to the best of his ability. He wrote his book, and thought of her. He tended to the garden, and thought of her. He walked through the woods, and there she was. He fell asleep in his armchair, her. He woke, her. Her. Always her. Back again. And he tried to forget. He tried to carry on, collect himself, and step out into the world, unafraid.

But, when the object of all your affections is on the stamps and the coins, the newspapers, and the lips of the entire country, it is very difficult not to feel the grief acutely.

But he carried on. Beating back against the current into the silver like of sky and sea, falling into a dream.

And, then, word got to William Lamb of a play.

Albert was accepted to come to Buckingham Palace. Queen Victoria, becoming fonder of parties and food now that she was beginning to return to herself, wanted very much to have guests. Something to exercise the mind, a new face for a familiar person – as it had been so long since she had seen her cousin Albert. And she knew that Mama would very much like to see Leopold again. And she knew Ernest to be a great deal of fun. It would be foolish to refuse the offer, and so she replied very quickly, welcoming them to Buckingham Palace with open arms.

The carriage arrived a couple of months later, on a bright day. The gold of the carriage gleamed so radiantly it almost rivalled the sun, and it harboured one of the brightest smiles Victoria had seen in a very long time. Ernest. He was the first one to bound out of the carriage (typical of him, Victoria knew) and his arms were already held out, like some child to their mother, or a lover to his maiden. And, before she even had time to greet him as a Queen would normally a guest, he was beaming his introductions.

“Cousin Victoria!” he drawled. He was more handsome than when he last saw him, and it came with being a good deal older. He was a man now, and he looked fine and healthy. “You do not look a day older than when I saw you last!” Victoria laughed at this, and took his outstretched hands.

“Thank you very much, dear Ernest!” she grinned, becoming a little teary eyed on this warm reception. She had not felt so dearly loved since – well – she must not dwell on that.

“Victoria, how grown-up you look!” It was Leopold, next to exit the carriage. His hair had more grey in it, it was silvering around the edges, like the fringe of crystal around the leaves in the wintertime, after the snow had fallen and the air was so crisp that it seemed to make a noise when one moved through it. His face had more cracks in it than before, or perhaps she could not remember them, being young as she was. She remembered him taller. She remembered him more funny-looking.

“Uncle Leopold!” Victoria exclaimed, holding out her hand to him, too, who knelt and kissed it. He did not seem too pleased to have to kneel and kiss the hand of his young niece – but Victoria found herself oddly thrilled by the power she felt in the situation. A buzzing sensation through her veins, like a thundering, overcame her, and a knot twisted at the base of her stomach. Being a Queen was still thrilling occasionally. She was a little girl playing make-believe.

Then, she peered over her uncle’s shoulder and young the gaze, pale and sombre, of her cousin Albert. He, too, like his brother, had gained masculinity in his years, like medallions he wore, but his medallions were not as polished as Ernest’s, whose face gleamed with a pride that radiated from him in an almost golden sheen. Albert was pewter where Ernest was gold. He was not unhandsome, not at all, but he was more serious. He hadn’t the glow of the party about him. He did not seem pleased to see her. He introduced himself, but did not cry the way Ernest had.

His gaze skimmed only the surface of her, and Victoria felt her heart sinking in her bosom.

She had hoped to feel something paramount to that first meeting with Lord M.

She remembered it all too vividly. Looking out of the window, knowing that her Prime Minister had come, almost feeling sick with the prospect. She had been so sheltered that she hardly knew men at all – would he be churlish? Would he be fat and harsh? Would he laugh at her folly and scorn her innocence? Would he be cruel? Would he be just like Sir John Conroy? Having almost no other soul to compare a man to, she was expecting someone of about his years, about his pomposity, about his cruelty, about his ugliness, and she was expecting to hate him about as much. But, looking out of that fogged window on that overcast morning, seeing the man in question lit obscurely by what little sunlight could permeate the grey wall of cloud above, she felt strange inside.

It wasn’t love, not then. It was a meeting of confusion and excitement. Something girlish and sheltered that she had not yet encountered being piqued. Not love, nor even attraction yet. But the idea of it. She could tell he was charming, even when he was handing over his horse, and exchanging words with men outside. His gait showed her his manner, easy and smart. He was so smart, she remembered that clearly. He wore blue, velvety. She had a thought, brief and untampered, that he might be a handsome man.

She hardly knew what a handsome man was.

And when he walked in, she knew. He approached her too quickly for her liking, for she would have liked to have a look at him. But, after he had kissed her hand (the kiss of her hand was unusual, sending a new feeling through her), he stepped back and she had time to view him. He was a handsome man. She knew that immediately. He was not young, but he did not look too old either. His hair had some grey in it, but he had the look of a younger man. He seemed meeker than she thought men were. He seemed respectful. He seemed very, very good.

And what was first good, became precious. And he was loved.

But she must not dwell on that.

The congregation went inside, and over food there was conversation over what their evening would hold. It was at this point when word got to Queen Victoria of a play.

“The Queen’s Tears.”

“Which Queen?” she asked by instinct. She had lost her appetite. Ernest seemed puzzled by the reaction to his proposition.

“It’s a play, Victoria. The Queen is not real!” he laughed. Lady Portman and Harriet Sutherland tittered a vague laugh – not enough to offend the Queen, but enough not to offend Ernest. “Victor Hugo. It’s very popular in Paris. But, then again, what isn’t popular in Paris?”

“And it’s being shown in London?”

“Yes! I’m surprised you haven’t already seen it. It’s an incredibly popular piece of work! The ladies are obsessed with it.”

“I hope it’s not bawdy, Ernest.”

“No! No, very respectful. I assure you, your Majesty. Come! We must go and see the play tonight!”

She could not tell whether it was through Ernest’s persuasion or her own sadism that she went to see the play that night. The title had upset her – struck her at the very bone – but she knew that she must see it. There was a note in her. She felt an affinity with this play. She must see it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will be continuing with this story, but I'm also working on a sequel to 'A Widow's Epilogue', so that might be begun before this is updated. Only a short chapter this time, as I've been busy, but I hope you enjoy anyway!


	4. Queen's Tears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The play.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Victoria Prompt Meme:
> 
> http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Victoria_prompt_meme

“The satin, Ma’am?” Skerrett asked, slightly taken aback by the request. The Queen hardly heard the reply. She was not often replied to when she issued requests. Pressing her downy cheek with the fingertips of one hand, and watching herself do it in the mirror, she saw Skerrett’s mouth agape behind her in the glass, and said, quite agitatedly,

“Yes. I think the satin.” Then, barely a second later, “Why not the satin?” She turned her back to the glass, but kept her fingertips on her cheekbone, tracing there, brushing there. Skerrett regretted having said a thing. She swallowed the lump that threatened to gag her.

“It’s just, Ma’am, that the satin seems very luxurious for the theatre. But it is not my place to interfere,” Skerrett said, quickly, keeping her head fixed downwards, and collecting her satin dress, laying it out for her. She worked very quickly. Victoria began to rub almost obsessively at her cheekbone, so strongly that it was beginning to pick up a harsh red colour, like a stripe on her skin.

“No, Skerrett, you’re right. It is,” Victoria admitted, observing how the dark satin made folds of light when laid out on the bed, ensnaring the glow of the candles, and she knew how it would flash and burn on her body when she moved. Everchanging: the way the light snakes across the water-top. “But I want this to be special,” she added, furrowing her eyebrows. She was confused at her own feelings.

“Special, Ma’am?” Skerrett was equally concerned.

“It’s very silly, Skerrett. I do not know why I feel like this,” Victoria muttered, a ghost of a laugh escaping her, forming ghosts in the air, and leaving her quite soulless. Her fingers still drifted across her cheekbone. Skerrett could see her fingernails dragging down her soft skin, close to drawing blood. Her white knuckles holding her white fingers in place. “I think I just want something…” her voice turned to air. She was opening her heart, but the hinges were stubborn and it was dusty inside. She took a deep breath to clear the dust, and began again. “I think I just want something special.”

Tears sprung into Skerrett’s eyes, entirely unexpectedly, and she turned her head down to hide them. In Victoria, she saw a broken woman. And Skerrett knew precisely why. She had hoped Prince Albert would cheer her – but it was clear he did not. When Skerrett spoke next, through the thick coagulate of her tears, she spoke from the beating heart,

“You deserve something special, Ma’am.”

And, tying her corset, coiling her hair, sliding pearl pins into place, and fixing the gown around her bosom, Skerrett took the greatest care imaginable. Skerrett bared herself as a young woman to another young woman, and she had no desire other than making Victoria feel like a pearl. And, when she tied the final ribbon, and she stood back to view the Queen, white gleams in her dark hair like the pinpricks of starlight in the night, dark satin falling like the cover of darkness across a forest, flashing with beams of moonlight, her skin almost translucently pale, but unbreakable as white marble. She was a figure cut from alabaster and onyx. A creature of momentary beauty and eternal endurance. Her face was clear of clouds or fear, but without a soft edge.

“You look beautiful, Ma’am.”

Victoria looked herself up and down in the mirror. A pearl, she thought, admiring herself, and a cold feeling crept into her: she felt beautiful, but knew that she would not be admired by her love. She wondered what he might think, if he saw her so pearlescent. She wondered whether he, too, would liken her to a pearl; a pearl that he might roll in the palm of his hand, admire, feel the coolness of on his flesh, gasp at, or with.

She was quickly ushered to the carriage, fearful they would be late for the evening performance, and soon she was hurried through the red plush velvet confines of the theatre to her box. Her arrival could not be disguised, and as soon as a single eye caught her shining figure, that wonder passed from man to man, woman to woman, until the words of ‘God Save the Queen’ rang out, in full voice, hearty and strong. Victoria stood at the song, but could not bring herself to view her subjects. She looked directly forward, stiffly, at some gilding on the proscenium, and willed the tears to keep from her eyes.

_Never let them know how hard it is to bear._

Another pair of eyes, too, were fighting tears at that very moment. Below, in the audience, only a face in a crowd that would never be picked out by the Queen, was Lord Melbourne. Both at the theatre that night entirely by chance. William looked to her like she was a goddess, high above him, shrouded in pearl. He was sure he saw something agonised in her expression, but convinced himself it was his imagination that made him think such trivial things. He could not force his voice to sing, for fear he would shout instead. Shout to her, call to her, heed the strain of his heart.

Run with her.

Then William’s eyes found two princes beside her, and a king: Ernest and Albert, her cousins, and Leopold, behind, her uncle. An involuntary twitch of the mouth gave away his distemper in seeing them – though, now, he had no logical reason to dislike it. He never had, not really. The Queen was young. The Queen deserved a husband. He had abandoned her – no – he had done his duty, so others were sure to swoop in. It was nothing to do with him, he told himself. No need to feel that creeping coldness clasp him, he told himself. No need for his eyes to give way to tears when now he saw her.

“You have such loving subjects, Victoria.” Keeping her head outwards, she turned her gaze to see Ernest. His cheeks were flushed with the force of their voices, and it was clear he was truly moved by this show of adoration directed to his cousin. Victoria finally was able to smile.

“It is an honour to serve them.”

William saw the exchange wordlessly between Victoria and Prince Earnest. A cock of the head, flushed cheeks, vague smiles. His head became light as air but his stomach was dull and heavy as lead. He would always have thought Albert a more obvious and preferable choice for Victoria’s hand – but he has also heard stories of Ernest’s charm and wit, his youthful vigour, and he knew how Victoria liked to be charmed.

But what troubled him was that Victoria did not only open up like a flower when she was charmed, she also needed to be valued, respected. To treat her like a doll would drive her mad. She had far too much spirit to be thus abused. He could hardly ignore his fear that Ernest would not treasure Victoria. Not as he would.

But he was a handsome man and – he hoped – a good one. It was nothing to do with him anymore, he reminded himself.

Victoria caught a green eye, only a second before the lights faded, the voices faded, and the play began. A hush, a noisy silence, and then music: great roaring trumpets, blaring and brash, and the almost overwhelmed patter of footsteps from the wings, the swish of a red curtain, and the rap-rap of an actor’s heart. Victoria’s heart beat faster.

Surely not.

Nevertheless, the play began.

A Queen, the title Queen, was of no country in particular, and was herself a deeply thoughtful, intelligent woman, very wise, very beautiful, very good. Finely played in good voice by an actress, not much younger or older than the Queen. Immediately, Victoria’s heart began to bleed. Not that she saw these qualities in herself, but that she felt so deeply sympathetic towards this woman. This woman who only existed in the light before her, and talked to the darkness in which she sat. This woman was a Queen, doubtlessly. Not only that, but she was utterly alone, and utterly desperate, and so was Victoria. She felt that she could reach out a hand, and take this woman’s cheek in her palm, and cry with her.

She felt her resolve falter in the darkness, and thanked the Lord for the lowlight that concealed her weakness. She hoped Ernest and Albert would not hear her sniffling.

Then an actor, handsome, a man of good years and excellent countenance, and air of nobility about him that seemed to be bred from family and fortune, but Victoria knew was simply a result of a studied actor, for he cannot be wealthy, emerged. A politician. A companion to the Queen. And Victoria stifled a gasp at what she saw before her.

William could not believe what his eyes and ears recorded. That man, a politician, and the Queen, Victoria (though not in name, in every other thing), engaged in a forbidden romance. What first grieved him beyond comprehension, began to soothe him. Hugo had not written it as a scandal, as a vile and shameful act, but as a romance as pure and simple and loving as any other written for the stage. Those who forbade it were villains and scoundrels. Those who allowed it were heroes.

How the public would receive a play with such a clear link to reality, William did not know; but, in himself, he was sincerely moved. The politician’s agony was his. The moments he shared with the Queen were William’s imaginings, his purest desires.

And, all of it, in a voice so lyrical to make him weep.

Were they so obvious? Were their feeling so notorious to have reached Paris? Would it come back to bite them, or so save them?

Sat in the darkness, he hadn’t the strength to answer the questions that so swarmed his mind. Some fire – too hot, too hot – was eased in him, and he felt not the fear that had been so awful before. So, he sat. And he watched. And he thought of her, sitting up on the balcony, and he wondered whether she, too, was crying out for him. He wondered whether she, too, felt their hearts laid out on the stage. He wondered whether she, too, thought of him.

She did. She does. She always will.

“To love a man as I do is no cause for shame.” The words of the actress, the Queen, spoke to a part of Victoria’s soul that, since her love’s departure, had lain empty and silent. “To love so deeply and so profoundly is to feel all that is sweet on this earth at once. The chill of the morning, the air in one’s lungs, the warmth of the spring, and all the little things that have been imperceptible to me all my life. How can it possibly be wrong? To finally feel alive? How could you keep from me my life?”

How could you keep me from my life? The question pulsed in Victoria, drew her breath out through her mouth until she felt she was drowning. Her life had been taken from her, as he had taken it with him. Why must duty keep her from her life?

Something bittersweet made the conclusion of the play: an uncertain ending that nearly crippled Victoria. The two lovers spoke for the final time before a vote, both unsure whether they would remain together, torn between what their wishes were, and what her duty dictated they should do.

“If you win the vote, if you return to me,” the Queen said, almost desperately, taking those hands that were dearer to her than the crown, “we will be happy forever, won’t we?”

“Not forever. Not as we wish.”

“But if you do not,” she said, “we will run away together.” To which the politician did not reply. So, the Queen repeated it. “We will run away together.” Still no reply, for he was unfeeling as a stone wall. “If this country will not accept us, how am I to serve it?”

No reply. The politician left, heeding the bell of the vote. And the curtain swept. Swish. And the applause thundered. And the actors bowed. And, though she could hear her cousin’s applause thundering in her ears, she could not bring herself to join in it. She sat, tears on her cheeks.

She was told, by a voice in her ear, that she was to meet the playwright.

She was led, half-dreaming, backstage, where a man with a very serious, severe expression stood, sharply dressed, rather fat in the face and thin in the hair (which was dark and slick like ink). He bowed to her, rather stiffly, and in a hard accent said,

“Your Majesty.”

Victoria did not hold out her hand to kiss. Partially to weary from her emotions, and partially feeling that, if she did, he would not kiss it. She waited for him to speak, and he waited for her to do the same, and so a moment passed undisturbed. To Earnest, the moment was awkward.

“It was a marvellous piece, was it not, Cousin?” he cried, trying to break the silence which, to Victoria, was sublime. A weak smile passed over her and she said,

“Quite exceptional.”

Earnest said a few more kind words, as did Albert, and Leopold quickly congratulated the man, and then they moved along. Victoria, however, stayed behind, at which time she unclasped her heart to the man, privately,

“Mr Hugo,” Queen Victoria said in a low voice, deeply moved, “I humbly thank you for your work. To see the words of my heart laid out bare before me on the stage… I could not believe anything could feel so raw.”

“Your ‘eart, your Majesty?” he asked, still so serious.

“You must understand the relevance of the work you have produced?” Victoria replied. “I have never seen anything that has felt so personal before, Mr Hugo. I felt every energy of mine pulled from me. I felt as if I was completely alone, and every word was whispered only to me. It was… quite astounding.”

“If my work ‘as given your Majesty any kind of ease of ‘eart, I am honoured,” he said, finally something soft appearing in his countenance. Victoria nodded.

“It has.” She was about to leave, when something stopped her, and she said, “You have done a very brave thing. I hope your play will change things.”

“The theatre ‘as a wonderful quality of shaping public opinion, Ma’am.”

“Does it?”

He nodded.

Victoria turned, smiling, and made her way to the carriage, where she knew she was being waited for.

She did not know she was being waited for by an old friend, her love, her everything, who waited outside the theatre just to catch a glimpse of her one last time. And, as she left the building, he caught his breath. She moved as if walking on the backs of stars, and it was as if the moon shone only on her, only for her, and she was shrouded and warmed by the pearly light. Silently, without a rustle or a footstep, she climbed into her carriage. And she turned her face out, to look upon the world, her dominion, and William saw those eyes, the lip, cheek, dimple, a shy, sad smile. The smile was the most enchanting of all, and he could not help but return it. Shy and sadly in his own way.

And those eyes, blue and fine, moved to rest for a moment on him as the carriage pulled away. Green eyes. Familiar, and beautiful. She almost called to stop the carriage. But she contained herself. Opening her mouth as if to speak, no sound emerged but a stifled gasp. William saw her mouth fly open, her gaze on him. The carriage moved too fast. She could not look at him as deeply as she wished. She had no time to study his face, the particulars of it, his expression, and what gems it gave her. She hadn’t the time to talk to him. To run away with him. To love him.

The carriage pulled away, and his face became memory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay on this update - but this is all still in the works. I hope you enjoyed the chapter and, as always, let me know what you think! x


	5. Curtain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The finale.

Like the movement from one act to the next, the great tide of the music, some trumpets and triumph, public opinion – changeable as the moon and unpredictable as a wildfire – turned in favour of the Queen’s hearts, guided by the words of a French playwright. Unperceived of her, her suffering turned to talk. On the lips of common clerks and militiamen, poor women nursing babies and the haunt of the East India Company, they were all talking of a strange romance between the Queen and their former Prime Minister. And what once had caught flames to lick at the heels of William Lamb, now gave air to sweet breaths. And what was once scorn and scandal, now became a sort of forbidden love story. Romeo and Juliet, or Tristan and Iseult: they became almost legend, yet the pair were not meeting in secret at all. They were not meeting. They stayed far apart with only the face of the other stored precious in their memory.

Sir Robert Peel and Lord Wellington grimaced upon seeing Prince Albert walk with the Queen. His accent was more unpleasant than listening to nails upon a chalkboard. Nightmares of a German on the throne were seizing them in the dead of night, plaguing them in the daytime. And they, too, began to notice public opinion. That was the difference between a monarch and a politician. A monarch stands before the country, behind an invisible wall. Whilst the politician stands behind the country, listening, and receiving. And even William Lamb seemed preferable to the German prince.

But, if she were to choose Prince Albert, they could do little to stop her.

So, they watched nervously from a distance, fingers crossed behind their back, praying to God that the prince would leave, and they could usher in an Englishman. A Duke, perhaps. Even a Lord. Anyone.

Victoria, the more time she spent with her cousin, grew to dislike Albert more and more. His conversation was uninteresting. He had not once laughed himself, or endeavoured to make her laugh. He took all things far too seriously. He had not a jot of mirth in him. He did not care for dancing or card games or drinking. She found his ‘high-and-mighty’ act utterly vexing. She could hardly spend an hour in his company without leaving, irked. She spent more time with her other cousin, Ernest, who was far more fun and far more agreeable. But a married to Ernest simply made her laugh. Though far more preferable, she could not marry someone quite so intense. Leopold was evidently impatient.

And that impatience led to a gradual sinking of hope. And the lack of hope led to his final resolution to return to Coburg.

“I told you, Uncle.”

“Victoria will see the errors of her ways eventually, Albert. She is still too young to understand her duty. She is a girl hung up on fantasies and dreams. You may one day be King.”

Albert did not listen to him, but climbed into the carriage, and stared out of the window, waiting for England to be stripped away from the window, and waiting impatiently for Germany to grace his eyes once again. Victoria was wishing Ernest a warm farewell, and sent her wishes to see him again, which he happily requited.

“I hope, cousin Victoria, that when I see you next, you will be gifted with all the happiness imaginable,” he said. At first, Victoria thought this strange, and she would have laughed at him, had she not looked into his eyes at that very moment. They were dark, and full of an emotion that she recognised at once. He knew. She did not know what it was particularly in that gaze that told her that – but she knew it. Perhaps he suspected it from her reaction to the play, or how she had searched his gaze from the carriage window. “Be with the person who makes your heart sing, Victoria.”

“I will,” she replied, moved.

And she decided she would. Letting go of Ernest’s hand, she felt a strange energy on the surface of her skin, and it seemed that he – too – felt the pangs of frustrated love. She could feel the agony of it, passing from her to him and back again.

“I hope, Ernest, that when I see you next, you will be content, as you deserve to be.” Her voice was gentle, womanly, and Ernest smiled. He joined his brother and uncle in the carriage, and it reeled away.

“The theatre?” William cried, slouching into his armchair. “I cannot spend all my time in the theatre, Emma!” Emma was persistent.

“Have you been recently, my dear William?” His lips pursed shut, and that was all the evidence Emma required to make her conclusion. “You saw the Queen?” Clouds passed across his countenance, and that was all the evidence Emma required to realise he had been deeply troubled by this. “You still care for her?” Tears flitted across his eyes, and that was all the evidence Emma required to realise he cared for her more than all the world. “Do you love her, William?”

At this, he sighed, forcefully, suddenly, and he turned away from his friend to hide his face in gazing at the corner of the room. An impulse seized Emma to reach out and hold him, but her propriety stifled it, and so she watched and listened to his shaking breath, laboured in preventing weeping.

“She wants to meet you there, William,” Emma explained. The heavy breathing broke in a noise. Raw, brief, but irrevocable. A sob.

She had never seen her friend cry. She had been with William when he laughed. She had been with William when he unclasped his heart, and poured out such beautiful intricacies of his character that Emma could not stop herself – though a married woman she was – from falling almost irretrievably in love with the soul he bared. It was done through no fault of his own, of that she was sure. He had never intended to make her fall in love. He never expected that she had. But she had. But Emma was far too sensible to allow herself to be slave to the passions of the heart. So, now, seeing him in pain over love, she could easily have been selfish, but she was not.

“If you do love her, William, I must assure you that you will never regret going to see her. You would only regret letting the chance pass by.”

“I cannot!” At this, William rose to his feet, and walked to the window, where he stood listlessly, “I cannot see her!”

“But you could.”

“I must not!”

“You must!” Emma cried, rising to her feet. “You love her, William, do you not?”

Emma knew he loved her – but she could never have known how deep the affection stretched. Only William was to know that. Loving Victoria made him doubt he had ever loved anyone before. He loved his mother and his sister with all his heart, playing with them and laughing with them in the early, spritely days of his youth. Loving Caroline was a whirlwind, a head-rush, a high, beautiful and fast but stifling in any length. Loving Ms Norton was clumsy and sexual, fervent, and gasping. Loving Emma Portman was genial and sweet. Loving Augustus was like dreaming, calm and peaceful but fleeting, slipped through the gaps in the fingers and his ribs, fast enough to break them. But loving Victoria – oh – loving Victoria. She was as familiar to him as a daughter would be. She was as exciting to him as a first love. She excited in him such an attraction to make herself a lover. Her company was as sweet and genial as a friend’s. To be with her was to dream, and nightmare, wake and sleep.

He was in love with the very idea of her. Without her beauty, without the twinkle of her voice, the power of her gaze, the finery, and the brilliance of her humour: even the sound of her name made his heart swell. Even hearing of her in the news made his pulse skip. Even thinking on her, hearing others talk about her, thinking of England: all inspired a reaction of love in William Lamb’s heart.

How could he possibly let her go now? He had tried to before, and she had come beating back to him. Was this fate?

Was Victoria his fate?

Perhaps. But only by going to her could he find out.

So, he followed Emma to the theatre. And, as she had promised, Queen Victoria was waiting for him, in the empty chasm of the stage. He approached her through the auditorium, through the aisle beside the rows of empty seats. The silence was beautiful, she was more so. She was like the moon, first appearing in the early evening, when the sky was still blue so the moon was only a ghost, translucent, painted over with milky orange. As the darkness enveloped, she came into her own, and glowed brighter than the stars, solitary. And William was like a cloud, darker, moving slowly towards the moon, afraid to shadow her and afraid of burning away, but drawn to the glow of her.

Before he said a word, Victoria spoke,

“Do you know, Lord M, that the very first play I ever saw was Love’s Labours Lost?”

“Really, Ma’am?”

“Yes. A collection of men, denying and stifling their love for a collection of women, simply for dedication to a cause none of them understand! And, even if they do understand it, it is meaningless.”

“Sound familiar, then, Ma’am.”

“A little, my Lord,” she laughed. There was a bashful air between them, awkward, but not unpleasant. Simply to be in the other’s company was enough. “But they all give in. In the end.”

“I am familiar with the play, your Majesty.”

“Yes?”

“Yes.”

Victoria tried to make out the beauties of William’s face in the darkness, but she waited until he climbed the stairs of the stage and met her on it. In that moment, they were the actors in the play. They were Queen and politician, forbidden lovers, acting out their heartbreak before an audience of silence.

“I suppose you understand why I have asked you to come here, Lord Melbourne,” Victoria began, before growing irritated with his distraction, and crying out, “Do not look so afraid, Lord M! We will not be discovered here!” William let out a sheepish smile, and Victoria continued. “The play affected me greatly and, with your permission, Lord Melbourne, I wanted to see if we could, together, move on to our encore.”

“Our encore?” stammered Lord Melbourne, “But, your Majesty, the Princes-“

“I have turned the Princes away!” Victoria cried, laughing, “I would have none of them! Not whilst…”

I have you. That is what she would have said. Had she not found her voice becoming lost in his presence.

“An encore, Ma’am?” he repeated, filling the silence. Victoria replied pragmatically – trying to quell the fluttering of her heart.

“Yes. Perhaps it may be popular.”

“Popular, Ma’am?”

“Oh! Would you stop calling me ‘Ma’am’ for once!”

“Victoria.”

“Victoria. Much better.”

“Will we run away together, then?”

“What?”

“Like the play.”

“Oh!” she laughed, “Yes, well, if you like.”

She would go to the end of the Earth with him, to tell the truth. As far as they could. Until the curtain fell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, again, for your continued support! I hope you enjoyed!!


End file.
